12

Her body has been her canvas for her story, long before she ever intended to tell it. Tattoos and scars give hints of plot and pain and triumph, to be seen by anyone who was interested.

A butterfly, reminiscent of her first step toward metamorphosis, its dark edges now blurred with time. Proof that transformation never ends.

Three sets of three dolphins, protecting her from the predators in communal waters, so that she could finally begin to let down her guard. A talisman to help her feel safe.

A love note to her adoptive home. Let it come, let it go. A daily devotion to the infinite cycle of nature.

And just below, the pinpoint scar over the vein that reminds her that her legacy is change, no matter how hard, and no matter how long.

When death arrives, the art will become ash, and the lessons alone will be carried with her. Words and actions are her new medium. Love is her new language. This is how she survives.

-Still, Between

11

She slices the butter, giving it space to soften, and a visceral memory grows. She has done this before, yes, but the sensation comes from a depth beyond her own muscles, beyond her own cells, and she knows. Her mother sliced butter like this. 

She looks at her hand, holding the gentle weight of the silver knife, and she sees her mother's hand. The resistance of the cold butter against the blade resonates deep in her marrow.  An unexpected connection across time, from a place unseen. Lineage anchors her body with a single thread, experience passed on through new skin and bones. 

She is her mother's daughter, and yet, she is only herself.

- Still, Between

10

She giggles as the cool drops land on her skin and she can't help but look towards the source. As the rain falls like hundreds of silver comets from the nebulous sky, her eyes close while her vision opens. It is a blessing, she thinks.

Or. 

She is the rain itself, sent from above just so she could know what it felt like to fall onto soft skin and split into a million pieces. Perhaps meaning is made where the question is heard, not where it is answered.

-Still, Between

7

She didn't like the way her mind was suddenly leading her down a dark bramble path, hanging her thoughts on the thorny branches along the way. It isn't the thoughts themselves that are the problem; she knows this. It's the pathway in her mind that convinces her that the thoughts are wrong and bad, so she is wrong and bad.

Thoughts are nothing, she thinks, ether, wind, air. Let them breathe.

She opens her notebook, the one that is only to be written in, never read. The pen hesitates as she returns up the dark and twisty path to the beginning. The full moon casts a ghostly light upon the gnarled tendrils and her snagged thoughts flap in the eerie wind like discarded trash. It is treacherous going. She looks down to find her arms and legs are scratched, her body mirroring the state of her mind. Bleeding and afraid, she arrives, and turns, to begin again.

This time, she thinks, go slow. 

One by one she plucks the hanging thoughts off the barbs, reading them back to herself, writing them down. As they fall from her psyche to the page, the wind quiets and the moon begins to set as the sun begins to rise. With new light, the path is no longer frightening, it is simply an ancient thicket that has never been tended.

Written, the words magically rearrange themselves, revising what's true and re-read, even as they are being written. Revelation shifts perspective. Light betrays shadows. The Truth is impossible to ignore now; bad and wrong cannot exist where true love lives.

In her periphery, two butterfly shadows pull her attention as they dance on the pavement below. She giggles in surrendered disbelief as she understands that the outside world has caught up now, turning her new mindscape into a beautiful garden.

Who are we, she thinks, without our shadows? Only half of who we are.

- Still, Between

6

Like that time when her wrist bled as she typed and revised and felt and thought through the words that formed through her fingers.  Red streaks layered upon the matte silver surface as her hands moved across the keyboard like a concert pianist. She wanted it to sound just right. Not to be correct, but to be truthful. Once her heart had bled onto her page, she saw that her body had done the same and she understood for the first time - art is worth bleeding for.

- Still, Between

5

He feathers his fingers along her shoulder and her breath lifts her bones and flesh, rising to meet his fingertips. She soaks it in, the way the desert welcomes an end of summer rain. The weight of his touch lands on the ridge next to her spine, tracing the length of her muscle, rebounding off the roundness below.  She feels his longing to pleasure her and she softens to let him know that he already is. There is nowhere to be, no time in this space. Only love exists here.

- Still, Between

3

The cords have pulled at her flesh for far too long, tethering her to past eons of fear and hate. Shackles placed at conception around her wrists, her ankles, and her tender soft center, bind and hold so tight. She forgets to breathe. Forgets to move. So seamlessly integrated, she thought they were part of her own skin. Only new eyes could see that they were made of something foreign, a story that never fit who she truly is.

Ties. That bind. There is no blessing here.

- Still, Between

2

She exists not as the body that walks along her path, but as the moon and the stars and the sun. The Earth beneath her, with its own lineage of creation, adjusts to her steps, each one intentional and purposeful, placed like a kiss upon its soft belly.

This is home, she thinks.

This body, yes. This planet, yes. And also the space between the spaces—the palpable reality that extends beyond her blue eyes and beyond the illusion her eyes accept as reality. As she looks through these windows, she is not separate. She feels the fluttering air circling her bare shoulders, lighting upon her cheeks, briefly landing with reverence—butterfly kisses from this Earth, mother of all life, speaking an undeniable truth.

You are loved. You are love.

- Still, Between

1

There's a looseness in her hips as she strides along the path. The softness of her mouth invites smiles from those who notice, but her attention is not on them. She is both contained and containing, sharing her body with the mysteries of the unseen as she inhabits the spaces of this Earth.

She is light. She is knowledge. She is truth.

One has only to witness her unwitnessed to understand that hers is a world in which magic happens. The unknowable becomes known in the safety of her chest. Impossibilities become possible in the swing of her arms. This is what goddesses are made of; she knows it, even when she is too afraid to allow it. 

She stops at a bench, drawn to stay in this moment. The angle of the sun illuminates the left side of her face, warming the smile beneath her flesh. It activates her into action, coaxing her to both stop and go. She's capable of doing both—not in oscillation, but in harmony. She holds the paradox of choice in her hands as she pulls out a pen and notebook. Time is inconsequential now. The only presence is hers. Observing. Noting. Feeling. Being. 

The usual daily drudgeries can't apply to her in this moment. When one has become who they are meant to be, time and duty are forgiven. There are no shackles to hold her to this plane; freedom lives within her. If it weren't for gravity, she might fly off into the realm of angels, where she truly belongs. But she knows she's in the midst of her incarnation. She waits patiently as the words come to her, and she forms her fingers into the right shape to wield her pen. The muscles of her hands do the work, scribbling this way and that, until she stops—not hesitating, but holding the space before more words pour from her vessel. 

This, she thinks. Just this.

She is the art.

- Still, Between